


Grain Of Sand In An Hourglass

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF Molly Hooper, Bittersweet Ending, Developing Relationship, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Immortality, Inspired By Sandman, Molly Is Patient, Non Canonical Immortal, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, POV Molly Hooper, Poor Molly, Romantic Friendship, Romantic Soulmates, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Kissing, Soulmates, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly had vowed never to give her heart away, never to fall in love with a mortal. Having seen what it had done to her mother for the last two thousand or so years, she had no desire to go through the pain herself of loving someone and watching them grow old and die while she stayed young and unaging. </p><p>That is, until the day she met Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>And then she didn't want anything more in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagsyB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagsyB/gifts), [renniejoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renniejoy/gifts), [SHolmes20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHolmes20/gifts), [Sherlolly29_belle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlolly29_belle/gifts).



>  
> 
> [ ](http://sherlolly29.tumblr.com/post/135581452705/oh-my-the-2015-sherlolly-big-bang-challenge-has)  
> 
> 
> So I wrote two fics for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang (I know, I'm a masochist). My first was inspired by the lovely **MagsyB** , who ages ago gave me the prompt " _The 1st rule of immortality is to not get involved with mortals but whoops I was in a coffee shop one day and fell in love with you and now I’m freaking out because in the grand scope of things we don’t get a lot of time together but please don’t leave me...not yet. I’m not ready._ " It took a long time coming, but here is the answer. Many thanks to **SHolmes20** for being an amazing cheerleader, **Sherlolly29_belle** for the gorgeous artwork (there is the cover image above, which you can click on to go to the Tumblr post for the full size image as well as the two other pieces she made, which are also on their accompanying chapters in story) and **renniejoy** for continuing to be the best beta in existence. I hope everyone enjoys this! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
>  _Art by **[Sherlolly29_belle](http://sherlolly29.tumblr.com/post/135581452705/oh-my-the-2015-sherlolly-big-bang-challenge-has)**_   
> 

Two thousand years was a long time to exist in the world.

Two thousand years of existing alone was worse, she had realized long ago. She had had many friends, many lovers, but she took care never to give her heart to anyone. She never wanted to experience the pain of giving her heart to a mortal and having it broken when, inevitably, he or she died and she was left to soldier on until the end of days.

That was what happened when your mother was Death, she supposed.

She wondered why she was lost in this train of thought this morning. She usually never really sunk into it, pushing it to the back of her mind except for the three month stretch of December to February. Christmas, New Year’s and Valentine’s Day were the worst things to come out of modern advertising in her opinion. It was so much simpler a few hundred years back, when those holidays weren’t so commercialized and there wasn’t so much pressure for people to love and be in love and be in relationships.

And besides, it was April. Spring was here. New beginnings, a time of growth. And she had a new post, at St. Barts. It had been nearly a hundred years since she’d last been in London for more than a few days at a time. There was something about this city that drew her like a lodestone. It wasn’t home; that was a long gone area that was now part of Greece, conquered many eons ago, and it was so radically different now. For a long time she had drifted, but when Londontown had sprung up on the banks of the Thames she had been drawn there, and ever since she was drawn back, time and again. Macedon may have been the place of her birth but London…London was home.

She had a nice little flat on Montague Street that was near the hospital. She was used to big cities, nice anonymous places where she could blend in. She preferred them because in small towns and quaint villages people asked questions. She still had to move quite often; a woman who doesn’t seem to age a day gets noticed, but these days with Botox and cosmetic surgery and the like being all the rage, she could stretch her time a little longer in places she liked, make herself at home a little longer. She liked that. She might be able to get fifteen years out of London this time. Twenty if she took pains to try and age herself a bit. She’d have to see.

She’d gone to the local coffee shop, intent on getting some coffee and maybe a croissant. Or even better, something sweet, something with chocolate. For two thousand years she’d had a sweet tooth and she doubted that would change until the day there were no longer sweets to eat, which at the rate humanity was going she was sure wouldn’t be too far in the future. Or at the very least the good, decadent sweets would be outrageously expensive and only the upper class would get to enjoy them. Fortunately, one of the privileges of immortality meant having time to accumulate great wealth. She’d be able to afford chocolate when a thirty-second of an ounce was a thousand pounds.

She was so focused on her thoughts that she wasn’t paying attention and crashed into someone coming out of the shop, coffee in hand. The cup opened and spilled all over the man holding it, and her eyes widened in horror. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she said.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, looking down. It appeared to have only landed on his dark grey Belstaff coat, not on his impeccable suit, thank goodness. “Waste of a perfectly good coffee.”

“Please, let me replace it,” she said. The man looked at her, glaring, but the minute she looked into his dazzling eyes, flicking from blue to green in a matter of moments she froze as a sensation came over her. She had dreaded feeling this sensation her entire life. Her mother had felt it for her father and then felt two thousand years of pain and sorrow afterward. This man…this man was the man she was going to give her heart to. She felt it deep in her soul. This was the man she was destined to love wholeheartedly, for the rest of his days.

“I’m in a rush,” he said sharply, snapping her out of her thoughts. “There isn’t time.”

“Well, at least let me repay you,” she said, pulling her wallet out of her handbag. She pulled out a tenner. “I know it’s more, but…” She handed it to him. “Treat yourself to lunch, too.”

He gave her a curious look, then took the bill and pocketed it. “Pay more attention next time.”

She nodded, and before she could ask his name or learn anything else about him he was walking away. She watched him head in the direction of the hospital for a moment before heading into the shop. She ordered herself a large hazelnut coffee and a pain au chocolat, still somewhat distracted, and then drank the coffee and nibbled on the pastry as she made her way to the hospital. She had already been briefed on everything a few days before and so she went to the morgue to head into the office, pushing through the doors to see a very familiar figure standing there. “Excuse me?” she asked.

The man she’d bumped into turned around and gave her a slightly wide-eyed look. “You,” he said. “You’re the new—”

“Specialist registrar,” she said with a nod, crossing her arms. “Who are you, exactly?” 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, moving forward and quickly flashing an ID card. “I need information on a body.”

“You need to show me proper identification, then,” she said.

“I just did.”

“You showed me someone _else’s_ ID,” she replied. “You can have him come in and tell me it’s all right to talk to you, though, if he’s not too upset you filched his ID.”

He stared, and then gave her a slight smile. “Fine. I’ll come back with Lestrade shortly.” He made his way to the doors and then paused. “Your name?”

She blinked, at a momentary loss for the name she was using now. “Molly,” she said after a moment. “Molly Hooper.”

He nodded again. “This will be…interesting,” he said quietly before leaving.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” she said to herself before hanging her head. This…this was going to be extremely complicated, she could tell.


	2. Chapter 2

“I need a foot.”

She dropped her scalpel on the table with a clatter. Oh, he did so love doing that to her. She had rather hoped that Sherlock would be…she didn’t know. Different. Decent. Nicer. Kinder. More like her father had been. What kind of cruel joke was the universe playing on her to have such an arrogant and puffed up man like him be the man she was destined to love? It was just wrong. But then she would stare at his eyes, the ones that, in their own way, seemed to mirror her mother’s and she would give in.

She was weak and hopeless when it came to this man.

It was absolutely pathetic.

“I can get you one or two in an hour, if you can wait,” she said, picking up the scalpel. It was a good thing she hadn’t been making an incision. She didn’t want to do anything sloppy on the job. She prided herself with a neatness to her work. She always had, ever since she had been allowed to work in the field. She had been quite put out when there had been restrictions put on her for being a woman. As though she could not do as much as a man. She was more capable than any man on the face of the earth of doing this. She had been for hundreds of years. But she couldn’t actually _say_ that. So she’d made it a point to travel to places where restrictions were lax, where people could give two figs about whether it was a man or a woman doing the job as long as the job got done and done well.

She was careful, though. She didn’t want to draw any particular attention to herself; her intimacy with death, her familiarity with it was a boon at a job like this, but she didn’t want undue attention. In a few years she would need to disappear and the less people noticed her, the better. It was already hard enough to end friendships; having people recognize her for other reasons would limit where she could go next. And interacting with Sherlock might pose a problem; he was, for lack of a better term, a rising star. He had a brilliant mind unlike anyone she had ever met before, and that was saying something. One day, and one day soon, there was going to be attention on him. She could feel it in her bones. She’d just have to work doubly hard to stay in the background.

He sighed as he leaned against the refrigeration unit. “I suppose I can wait,” he said. He _seemed_ bored but as he surveyed the body on her table she could read the interest in his eyes. He was intrigued. Something about the body had caught his attention.

“Do you see something interesting about the man’s instep?” she asked, trying to hide a smile.

She looked up in time to see Sherlock blink for a moment, and then get the bored look on his face again. “Someone smashed it down with something,” he said.

“Look again,” she said, allowing herself a small smirk. “Feel free to feel around his foot a bit, look at it closely.”

He gave her a mild glare but he bent over, examining the man’s foot. When he raised his head again he looked at her with something resembling a trace of respect. “A motorbike ran over his foot,” he said.

She nodded, and then motioned for him to come closer. He moved away from the man’s feet and came up to where Molly was pointing at his mouth and throat. “He was sprayed with something that he had an immediate and violent allergic reaction to, which caused his throat to swell up and him to asphyxiate.”

“So it was murder,” he murmured, leaning in to study the man more closely.

She nodded. “Oh yes. I doubt very many people would do that to someone they liked, after all.” She gave him a smile and, for a brief moment, thought she saw a faint smile in return before he turned away. “Aren’t you going to be wanting your foot?”

“Later,” he said, waving his hand above his head as he made his way out of her morgue. The double doors opened as he pushed his way through and then swung shut behind him, leaving her in peace.

She went to do the incision, humming to herself. She had made him happy, briefly. Or impressed him. She wasn’t quite sure. She could see she had made _some_ impact on him. There was such a hard shell there to pierce through, though. She wondered at that. She knew she’d been through hardships, gone through unimaginable losses in the long, long time she’d been alive. She’d lost much, seen humanity at its darkest and most horrific, seen the cruelty the world could heap on anyone for any reason, and yet she had emerged…well, not quite unscathed. While still kind and caring she was rather cynical in her own way. She still believed in the best of humanity, though.

But Sherlock was different. _Something_ had caused him to retreat in on himself, to keep everyone at arm’s length, to be callous and cruel and uncaring. Something had hurt him, badly. Or perhaps someone. Maybe one day he would tell her. Maybe one day he would trust her enough to open up to her. She hoped so, at any rate; this was the man she was destined to love with all her heart, to give part of her soul to, to love unconditionally and wholly. If he pushed her away as he did everyone else, left her off to the side, she might not come off the better when she finally gave up. Or worse, if he battered and bruised her heart with unkind words and unkind actions, she might become cruel and heartless herself. But every once in a while she’d catch a glimpse, like she did today, that gave her hope. 

She’d just have to cling to that hope for all it was worth.


	3. Chapter 3

The man did something to her.

She still felt slightly flushed at the thoughts she’d had from watching him beat the corpse to get the markings he would need for comparison later. Even the dismissal of her offer of coffee – how he thought she meant to go get him coffee when he’d realized she’d freshened up her lipstick she’d never know – hadn’t done much to dampen that. Damn it all, this was not good. It had been _years_ now and he still had that effect on her. It should have gotten better by now. Easier.

She started to make her way to the locker room to take a shower before heading home. Not that she needed to; there was no one there waiting for her, no one who would worry that she smelled of the dead. The smell didn’t bother her at all. It was almost comforting, in its way. She had never felt uncomfortable around the dead, but she knew most people did not feel the way she did. She showered before she left out of habit, from years of going out around people who did not like the smells that reminded people of the morgue.

She was lost in her thoughts when she crashed into someone on her way to the lift. She looked up and saw that it was Sherlock. _Wonderful,_ she thought to herself as she felt herself redden slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“You have a habit of doing that,” he said.

“I’ve only done it a few times. Three at most, maybe,” she said. “The first time we met, a few months after that and just now.”

“The first time you spilled coffee all over my Belstaff,” he said. “The second there was acid on my Marsèll polished leather bluchers that ate a hole through the leather. At least this time there was no damage.”

She flushed at the mentions of the previous encounters. “Yes, well, the first time there was no damage to your coat and I gave you money to replace your coffee,” she said. “What were you doing down here? Did you need something?”

“I think I left my riding crop in the morgue,” he said. “I was going to retrieve it before I did research on my potential flat mate.”

She blinked at that. “What potential flat mate? The man who was in the lab?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

“Ah,” she said.

“I told him I was going to get the crop but I got called away. You never did text me with the results, so I thought I’d come back down here and see for myself. Quite unlike you, by the way.”

She glared. “I did, actually. You never replied.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Check your mobile,” she said.

He pulled out his mobile and looked at it for a moment before opening his text messaging program, pulling up a message and scrolling through it. "So you did. And in great detail.” He scrolled some more. “With pictures, as well.”

“I’m quite thorough,” she said, slightly irritated. “You just don’t have a bloody signal in that lab.” She moved around him. “You can go pull him out and look for yourself. Mackenzie is in there. He doesn’t like you, but tell him I said to play nice and he’ll leave you alone.”

“Molly…” he said quietly, but she shook her head and moved away. There had been too much of him today, between the rebuttal of her offer of coffee and then the comment on her mouth being too small and then this encounter. She just wanted to put space between them.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Wasn’t he supposed to love her? Wasn’t he supposed to at least _like_ her? Oh, this was all wrong. This was all so very wrong. This wasn’t at all how it had been for her mother and father. The moment they had met they had both known. They had known deep down that they were connected, that they had a connection deep in their soul that would entwine them for the rest of their lives. It had almost certainly been love at first sight, as far as she had known.

So why hadn’t it been that way for her?

Why did it seem like Sherlock could just barely tolerate her?

She made her way to the lift and then went to the staff locker rooms. She stripped down and went into the shower, trying to hold back tears but failing, crying in the shower and allowing the sound of the running water to swallow up her sobs. Eventually she was able to compose herself, and she washed her face before leaving the showers. She should steel her heart, be prepared for things to not go the way she wanted them to, for her love to be wasted on a stubborn, selfish man. Because she knew fate wasn’t always kind, and perhaps that was her lot in life, to be fated to give her heart to someone who would never give it back.

And she had to be ready to live the rest of her existence knowing that.


	4. Chapter 4

She had been rather surprised by the fact that not only had he noticed that she had changed how she had parted her hair, he had commented that it looked nice with the different part. Of course, he’d probably only been trying to butter her up to look at the feet of the two dead bodies in her care, but still. He had noticed, and he had commented, and there had been a compliment.

It was a few days after the incident with the date that John had complained bitterly about, the near death at the hands of the Chinese assassins. She had to admit, she felt bad for John in some ways. Her own life had gotten more interesting to a slight extent once Sherlock had entered it, but she had the feeling John’s was going to get exponentially more so, and she wasn’t sure he was entirely ready for it. But he’d learn; he was a good, solid, dependable man and he’d learn. 

She had fixed her hair that way again, partly to see if he noticed and partly because he’d been right; it did suit her. And she’d decided she wanted to dress up a bit more, garner attention from whoever felt like giving it to her. Sherlock was taking his sweet time with things and even if he was destined to be the man she gave her heart to that didn’t mean she couldn’t have dalliances with other men in the meantime. They couldn’t have her heart but it didn’t mean they couldn’t have other parts of her.

She heard the doors open and she turned to see Sherlock standing there. He gave her a once over glance before coming in more. “I need to see the Astin body,” he said.

She felt slightly disappointed that he hadn’t made a comment or given her a more approving nod or anything like that, but she nodded in return and then when to the refrigeration unit and pulled the appropriate body out. “I also have the autopsy results if you need them,” she said.

“I may,” he said, pulling out his pocket magnifier and beginning to inspect the body. She stood to the side and gave him silence and space, the two things he seemed to request from her most often when he was working. He examined the body most thoroughly for nearly a half hour before he straightened up. “This is not Robert Astin.”

She blinked. “What?”

“This is his identical twin, Richard Astin. They are almost nearly identical except for a few key differences. Patricia Astin, Richard’s wife, said Richard has been missing for three days and felt his brother had done him harm.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh my.”

“Whatever you do, don’t let Robert Astin’s widow claim the body.” He turned around to leave. “I’ll be back shortly with Lestrade. Remember. Do not let the body be taken.”

He walked out of the morgue and she thought through all the different ways she could lose the body without actually losing it. She came up with a few methods which would give her at least three days, which was good, as fifteen minutes later a funeral service came to collect the body. She was able to send them back without the body but she knew there would be a small war brewing shortly and she would be in the middle of it.

Three hours later the widow and the head of the hospital were both berating her in her office with Stamford trying to protect her when Sherlock strode in with Lestrade by his side. Lestrade told the widow she was being arrested on charges of conspiracy to commit murder and Sherlock explained the situation to the head of the hospital, and soon everyone was gone except Sherlock and Molly. Molly was sitting in her chair, head bowed. She was angry and embarrassed and just wanted to crawl in a hole and die. Not that she was able to, of course, but it would have been nice.

“You were an immeasurable help. You will put two killers behind bars because of what you did.”

She looked up and saw that Sherlock had his hand on the door knob. He probably had no meant to say anything. He was just going to leave and let her be, but he’d felt the need to say something. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

He studied her for a moment. “Wear your hair like that more often. It’s pleasing,” he said before opening the door and letting himself out. She stared after him a moment and then gave herself a small smile. Maybe one day he would learn the art of giving a proper compliment, when it wasn’t being used to get something in return. 

Perhaps. 

And maybe she would be on the receiving end of one of those compliments. That would be absolutely lovely. But for now she would take what she could get. She could be patient. She’d had thousands of years of experience in the art of patience.


	5. Chapter 5

She was in the morgue when Sherlock texted her. It was rare she pulled this shift, but every so often she’d switch with someone else and she’d work one of the more undesirable shifts so someone else could attend an event or have a date or do something they needed to do. The text had simply read _Need to talk about Jim from IT. Now. SH_ and she’d had the feeling it was bad news.

She had nothing to do at the moment; no bodies to deal with, no paperwork to keep her mind off things. All she could do was sit and wait for Sherlock to arrive to talk to her about whatever it was he had to say about Jim. Or whatever _more_ it was he had to say, she supposed; he’d had plenty to say before. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

She really shouldn’t have used him to make Sherlock jealous. It hadn’t been fair to Jim. He was nice enough, though there had been something about him that had raised her hackles a bit. After the encounter in Sherlock’s lab, when he had kissed her, it had felt different, and she had told him they probably shouldn’t go on any more dates. He took it well enough, she supposed.

Or maybe he hadn’t.

It was quite late when Sherlock came in. He seemed quiet, not full of energy like he usually was. Rather subdued, actually. Also slightly annoyed, but she couldn’t tell why quite yet. He stalked into her office and saw her sitting there, and he paced in the narrow space for a few moments before he spoke. 

“Jim from IT is James Moriarty. The man behind the bombings, and the murder of Carl Powers,” he said finally, his voice quiet.

Her eyes went wide. It had been a long, long time since she had misjudged a person so badly. At least a hundred years, she realized. She leaned back in her office chair and set her arms on the arms of the chair, her hands gripping them tightly. “I see,” she said.

He ran his hand through his curls as he looked at her. “Did you know?” he asked. She turned her stare at him and if possible, her eyes got even wider. Before she could answer, though, he shook his head, pacing back and forth, like a caged animal. “No, no, of course you didn’t. He fooled you like he’s fooled so many others. He’s good. He’s superb. Unfortunately.”

She let out a sigh of relief that he had not _really_ considered her working in collusion with that bastard. She stood up after a moment and stood in his path. He almost ran smack into her but stopped mere centimeters in front of her, looking down at him. “Tell me what happened tonight, Sherlock,” she said.

“He kidnapped John,” he said quietly. “He kidnapped John and took him to the pool where he had killed Carl Powers and placed a bomb on his chest. And then he almost killed us both but changed his mind. And now we’re ensnared in a game of his.”

“Well, you’re more brilliant than he is,” Molly said. “You’ll beat him.”

“Will I manage to keep everyone safe, though?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. You’ll keep John and everyone else safe. I have the utmost faith in you.”

He seemed to relax slightly at that. Not enough that it seemed immediately noticeable, but enough that she could see his shoulders sag less, she could see his back straighten. It was as though some of the heavy invisible weight he was carrying had been lifted. “And you?” he said.

“What about me?” she asked.

“Do you trust I’ll keep you safe?” he asked.

She nodded. “I do,” she said.

“Good.” He looked down at her for another moment more and then consciously took a step back. “As we don’t know where Moriarty is tonight, I know my brother has stepped up the normal security detail that he has assigned to monitoring you. I felt I should warn you.”

“I have a whole detail assigned to me?” she asked with a smile.

“Everyone who associates closely with me does,” he said.

“They must be bored to tears,” she said.

He grinned just slightly, the smallest upturn at his lips. “Possibly. You do live the life of a nun. But just know you are safe here tonight, and will be safe when you return home.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Mycroft.” He moved away even more and then went to her office door to let himself out. He paused at the door for a moment and looked at her. But he said nothing, and then turned and left instead. She watched and then went to her desk again, prepared to lose herself in her thoughts. This was going to complicate things immensely, she knew that. She just hoped that it wouldn’t mean she had to leave London even earlier, before she could even see if anything developed between her and Sherlock after all.


	6. Chapter 6

She didn’t know why she was surprised that he’d seen her naked. Why she felt…jealous. It wasn’t like _she_ hadn’t seen naked men before, been intimate with men before. But she supposed it was the fact that they were supposed to be destined together, and he wouldn’t give her the time of day, and yet he’d seen everything Irene Adler had to offer.

She made her way back to her flat feeling rather dejected, having pretty much lost the Christmas spirit entirely. The cheery decorations seemed to be mocking her now, and all she wanted to do was go to her bed, curl up and cry into her pillow. At least as thanks for sacrificing her evening Mycroft had pulled strings for her to have the next day off. If she wanted to she could spend all day watching sad, pathetic movies, moping at home and being miserable all by herself, and then put on a bright cheery face for the world the day after.

She put her key in the door and unlocked it, and after a moment realized that that someone was inside already. She very slowly put her keys in her handbag and fingered the Farbgel she kept in the bag, something that Greg had given her when Moriarty had been strapping bombs on people, just as an extra measure of protection. Not that she needed it, but it was the thought that counted. It took her a minute to realize it was Sherlock, though, and she relaxed. “I thought you were at Baker Street,” she said, slipping the spray back in her handbag before she set it on the table by the door.

“I’m supposed to be. As far as John is concerned, I’ve locked myself in my room and I’m playing my violin,” he said.

“Ah,” she replied. “Are you going to be gone all night?” she asked.

He shook his head, and then held something up. She moved closer and saw it was the gift she had given him. It wasn’t much, just a set of nice leather gloves, but he hadn’t unwrapped it yet. “I thought you’d like to be there when I unwrapped this.”

She moved into her kitchen. “You didn’t have to,” she said quietly as she began to make tea.

“It was important enough to you that you took care in how you presented it to me,” he said, getting up to follow her. “I don’t have anything for you, though. Yet.”

“You don’t have to, Sherlock,” she said, putting water in the electric kettle. “Honest. I know Christmas isn’t your favorite holiday.”

“Still. It’s been a long time since someone has made an effort and I’ve ruined it. I feel I should make it up to you.” He stood close to her but not too close, watching as she finished filling up the kettle and then plugged it in. “A kiss on the cheek is not enough of an apology for humiliating you.”

“But the actual apology was enough,” she said, not turning around. She almost wished he hadn’t come tonight. She wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with him, knowing that he had seen Irene Adler naked, not knowing the implications of what that could mean. She gripped the kitchen worktop slightly. “After tea you should go back. John might try and break the door down if you don’t actually answer him.”

“He might,” Sherlock conceded. He was quiet for a few moments. “About tonight. At the morgue. I was not intimate with her.”

“Why would that matter?” she asked, trying to seem nonchalant. She busied herself with getting the tea from the canister.

“You seemed embarrassed. I just…wanted to let you know. She wanted to intimidate me, upon our meeting in person for the first time, so she greeted me naked. I made her put on my coat.”

Despite herself she smiled a bit. “I see.”

“I have not been one of her clients. I am not attracted to women such as her. I’m not really attracted to women who flaunt power or use it as a weapon. I don’t mind those who enjoy dominance on occasion, but not all the time.”

That was an interesting tidbit to learn. She turned to face him. “What type of women are you attracted to, Sherlock?” she asked.

He looked at her for a long while, studying her. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “I think I’m still trying to sort that out.”

She nodded slowly. “Some people spend a long time doing that,” she said. “It happens.” She gave him a small smile at that. “Why don’t you open the gift and then, maybe, we can talk or something. Or if you feel up to it, watch a movie? I mean, only if you want to.”

“Do you have any movies you feel like watching that aren’t treacley sweet Christmas movies?” he asked.

Her smile grew a little wider. “You can browse my film collection if you’d like. I think you can spare a few hours before John rigs up a battering ram to break the door down. It _is_ a danger night and all.”

“I could always text him and tell him I went to a bolt hole,” he mused.

“So my flat’s a bolt hole now?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he replied.

“I can live with that,” she said, going back to setting up the tea. “My DVDs are in the cabinet by the telly.” She watched him move over that way. She wasn’t quite sure what this meant for the two of them, this turn in their acquaintanceship, but it meant _something_. She’d have to wait to find out what.


	7. Chapter 7

Her phone rang and as she looked at the caller ID she was rather…surprised. As far as she knew, Sherlock and John were off in Dartmoor on a case and there was no need for her to be involved at all, especially at this time of night. She hit the mute button on her remote for the telly and answered the call. “Hello?”

There was a pause. “I…” Sherlock said, and he sounded uncertain.

She sat up more on the sofa. “Is everything all right?” she asked gently.

“It is,” he said after a moment. “Now, at least. I’m sorry I disturbed you. I’ll let you go.”

“Sherlock, wait,” she said, utterly confused by this conversation. She shifted her position on her sofa, sitting cross-legged and then leaning back. “Sherlock, what is it? You can talk to me. I…it’s all right, all right?”

There was another pause. “I had a scare tonight, in the course of the case,” he said quietly. “I saw something in the moors, something John did not.”

“Ah,” she said. “Was it what your client saw?”

“How did you know the client saw something?” he asked sharply.

“John mentioned it,” she said. “He brought it up before you left. A hound on the moors.”

“Oh.” Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I saw…that. And something more.”

“What else?” she asked.

“I saw…Moriarty,” he said quietly.

Molly froze. She knew he was out there, probably still plotting and planning. She wasn’t concerned about herself; whatever the maniac did to her, she’d survive. Hell, even if he went back to the bomb route, she’d be fine. She’d stood in the middle of a bomb blast before, walked away without a scratch. But what he could do to Sherlock, to John, to the others…if Sherlock had seen him, or thought he’d seen him, no wonder he was rattled. “Were you alone in the moors?”

“What?” he asked.

“You’re a logical man, right?” she asked.

“Obviously,” he replied.

“Then I’m trying to help you with logic. Now. Were you alone in the moors?”

“No,” he said. “Henry was with me.”

“Did Henry see what you saw?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I believe he saw the hound, but not Moriarty.” 

“Then that tells me there is something there playing tricks with your mind,” she said. “I mean, in an actual hallucinogenic or psychotropic sense. The hound means something to Henry, obviously, because that’s what he wants you to investigate. It means something to you now, because you’re like a starving dog with a bone with cases these days thanks to nicotine withdrawal.”

“I am not,” Sherlock interjected.

“You are so. You’ve been a beast lately,” she said.

“How kind of you to say so,” Sherlock said, in a partly hurt, partly snide tone.

“I can hang up right now if you want,” she said in response.

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds. “Go on.”

“Anyway, both of these things are at the forefront of your mind. But I bet your hounds might not have looked the same unless Henry told you what his hound looked like, and even then they wouldn’t be _exactly_ the same. But Moriarty…that’s your own private spectre. He haunts you and you alone. If you saw him and Henry didn’t, then whatever it is out in the moors that cause you to see him tonight is something that doused you with a psychotropic or hallucinatory drug, I’d say.” There was a full minute of silence after that. “Sherlock?” she finally asked

“Thank you, Molly,” he said.

“You’re welcome?” she said, a bit surprised.

“You have managed to convince me I haven’t lost my mind and given me a course of investigation to pursue tomorrow to get answers once and for all. I am most appreciative.”

“Glad I could help,” she said, uncrossing her legs and shifting her position, tucking them under her to get more comfortable. “But Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he asked.

“Be careful out there, all right? I mean, if there’s someone dosing people with nasty stuff that is bringing on hallucinations making people see things like what you saw…that’s concerning.”

“We’ll be fine, Molly. Though thank you for your concern.” There was a pause. “Be careful yourself, though. I don’t want to have to get used to someone new in your position at Barts. It took me years to get used to you.”

She smiled slightly at that. That was probably one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her in the entire time he’d known her. It wasn’t sweet nothings or words of undying love, but coming from him, she would take what she could get. “I will be as safe as I can be, Sherlock. I promise.”

“Be safer than that,” he said. “Good night, Molly.”

“Good night, Sherlock,” she said. He hung up first, and after a moment she unmuted the telly and then settled in to watch her programme again. In the back of her mind she worried about what was going on at Dartmoor. Perhaps when she went to sleep tonight she’d ask her aunts and uncles to keep an eye on her friends, just in case. It never hurt to have someone else keeping watch.


	8. Chapter 8

She’d have been much happier if Jim was in jail. He _should_ have been in jail, by all accounts; he’d been caught with the bloody Crown Jewels, for Eris’s sake. But now, somehow he’d managed to get out of it. And now he was playing his game with Sherlock, kidnapping the children of some diplomat, pretending to be Richard Brook, smearing Sherlock’s name…it was all such a huge, awful mess. And Sherlock was caught up in the middle of it and now he was hiding out at the hospital and there were some little things she could do but not much. So she wanted to busy herself, stay active and stay away from home. She knew her home was probably highly protected, but as long as Moriarty was out in the world, she wouldn’t feel safe. Physically she would be fine, but otherwise…

She let herself into the path lab and stopped. She had thought he was in her office but he was there, sitting on the floor, bouncing a squash ball. She set down her samples and looked over at him. “Sherlock?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “I had thought to come here to clear my mind. It might be my last time in this room.”

“You’ll come back,” she said, moving closer to him.

He got up and moved away from her. “I’m not sure I will,” he said quietly. “Come back, I mean. I don’t know exactly what will happen. I can only plan so much. I can go up on that roof with a semblance of a plan, but I can’t anticipate what Moriarty has planned at this point. He’s unpredictable. And that makes him dangerous.”

“But you can still beat him,” she said, disheartened that he had moved away.

He didn’t reply to what she had to say, instead studying her. “You see me, Molly. You see me for myself, as opposed to the image that is presented by the media. You see me when no one else sees me.”

She nodded slowly, sitting on a stool near him. “I always have,” she said. 

“Why?” he asked.

“I…” she said, wringing her hands slightly. “I’ve been attracted to you for a long time. I mean, you’ve fascinated me. And I’ve gotten to study you. You’re…interesting. And I want to know you. I’d hoped we could be close. I mean, we probably won’t get to be now, but…”

He was quiet for a few moments. “I’ve made a hash of us, haven’t I? I should have treated you better. I should have treated you as more of my equal.”

“But you’ve gotten better, since Christmas,” she said, looking at him. “I mean, you don’t treat me as cruelly, most of the time. We’re not best mates, but we’re not just acquaintances, either. I mean, we are friends, I think. I hope.”

“But we could have been this way earlier, from the start,” he said. He made his way closer to her. “I wasted so much time seeing you as beneath my notice. I didn’t see you when you so clearly saw me.”

“Then you just need to make it a rout and come back, Sherlock,” she said when he got close enough to reach over for his hand. She played with his fingers for a moment, looking down at them. “You’ll go up to the roof and you’ll deal with Jim and you’ll come out on the better end of it. You’ll beat him, Sherlock. I know you will.”

“Why do you have so much faith in me?” he asked, and she looked up to see that he looked confused, as though he just couldn’t understand why she would think he’d be successful.

“Because I would be a fool not to,” she said, gripping his hand a little more firmly. “And you don’t tolerate fools.”

He gave her a small grin at that and gripped her hand back for a moment before letting go. “I believe we should see if Mycroft has any more of the plan worked out,” he said.

She nodded. “Let’s go check, then,” she said, getting off the stool and going to stow her samples for safekeeping. She had to try and keep his spirits up. Had to try and convince him he could succeed. Because if she couldn’t…then he would fail, and she would lose him.

And she wasn’t sure she would be able to handle that, not now.


	9. Chapter 9

There had been quite a bit to do; she knew very well how to fake a death, to the point that she had pointed out the mistakes in Mycroft and Sherlock’s plans as they came up _and_ pointed out at least two ways of fixing each one, much to the surprise of the brothers, and they had both been surprised at how much work had to go into it. But she hadn’t been. She was an old hand at this, which she supposed might have been alarming to them if time hadn’t been of the essence. Moriarty had put the game in motion and it was up to them to put their own plan into play in the confines of that game and pray their countermeasure worked.

And, so far, it seemed to have worked like a charm.

Aside from having to procure a splint for the broken wrist he’d received during his fall Molly’s part with Sherlock had been brief, but she’d managed to tell him his bolt hole was available before he was rushed off by his brother. Whether he was there waiting, though, would be another matter. She hoped he would be there when she got back home, but Mycroft might have had other plans for him. She wasn’t privy to the entire plan, after all, just the parts that her expertise was needed in. What was to happen next…well, she wasn’t needed for that, so she wasn’t to know about it. That was between Sherlock and his brother, and perhaps that was best.

But she wanted a proper good-bye, just in case the worst happened. Just in case he left and didn’t come back. She was fairly sure she would know if that happened; over the years their connection had been tested but never broken, the tether between them growing stronger with each interaction. If the worst happened, she was sure she would feel it snap and feel the gaping hole in her heart without anyone having to tell her otherwise.

She let herself into her flat and saw that there was someone in her chair. For a brief moment she worried it was someone from Moriarty’s organization until she flipped on the light and saw that it was Sherlock. “My usual spot?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, setting her handbag on the table. “My bedroom is yours, however long you need it,” she said softly. “You need your space, after all.”

“I suppose,” he said. She moved closer to him and he looked up. “Everything went according to plan?”

“Yes,” she said. “Officially, William Sherlock Scott Holmes is dead.”

“Good,” he said. “Mycroft wanted me to stay with him. He wanted me to hide in his fortress until he could smuggle me out to the first port of call to take care of matters. I almost did, until you made your offer.”

“Well, I thought it might help,” she said, reaching for his hand.

“You…are important to me,” he said when she grasped it, squeezing it. “I should have told you, long before this. Long before I needed your help.”

“It’s all right,” she said.

“No. No, it’s not,” he said. “You care. You cared even when I treated you like a wad of gum on my shoe. Like rubbish that needed to be tossed in the bin. You’ve been kind to me even when I’ve been cruel to you. And I can’t wrap my head around why. All I know is I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve someone like you in my life.”

“You do,” she said, letting go of his hand and framing his face. “You deserve someone who cares, someone who’s kind, someone who lo—” She stopped herself from finishing the sentence, looking down at him for a moment. “You deserve it, Sherlock, even though you think you don’t.”

She made to move her hands away but he grasped them, lowering them and holding them lightly. “Do you love me?” he asked quietly. She didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to let it all spill out, about how she loved him wholly and completely, with all her heart and soul, about how they were destined to meet and how she was destined to love him for such a brief period of time. All she could do was look into his eyes and nod. He let go of her hands and framed her face, leaning in and kissing her softly. There was no full blown passion in this kiss, nothing to make her think it was anything more than profound thanks on his part, but it was something more beautiful to her than she had ever felt before. When he pulled away he rested his forehead against hers. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

She nodded just barely, not wanting to lose this closeness, wanting to keep him close forever and ever. “You’re welcome,” she said back.

“I do not wish to be alone tonight,” he said. “There are still things to take care of, and I need to leave before daybreak, but…”

“I’ll sleep next to you tonight,” she said. “I’ll keep you close.” He pulled back then and turned away, heading towards her bedroom, and she shut her eyes, trying to compose herself. Whatever she felt, however much turmoil was going on in her head and her heart, she needed to be strong for him. She needed to lend him her strength, because he needed to carry it with him for however long he was gone if she had any hope of him coming back to them.

To her.

Because she knew now, without a doubt, he had captured her heart and her soul and no one else would ever have it as wholly and completely as him…even if he didn’t realize it yet.


	10. Chapter 10

She had counted down the days. It had been such a long time since she had counted down the days in regards to anything that it seemed very odd at first. But she began to keep a journal where she kept track of her thoughts and feelings and how many days it had been since he had left. Even then she was very careful what she put in it; she had always been careful with what she wrote or said in regards to her thoughts and feelings. She’d had centuries upon centuries of practice with that. It was in her own best interest to be that way.

But in the confines of her dreams…there she was allowed a little more freedom. She didn’t always dream the way mortals did. Her mother was able to walk amongst the realms, and she could visit Molly in her dreams, even when she was inhabiting the body of a human, as she was doing now. Being able to pour out her heart to her mum had helped; if she’d had to keep it all in, the fear that that he would fail and never be able to return, that he would be a completely different man when he returned, that he would be hurt, or worse, she may have gone mad. But her mother could offer comfort, and occasionally her aunts and uncles could offer their aid, keep their tabs on him, give her glimpses. They knew he was important to her. They would do their best to ensure that he came back to her.

Days became weeks, then months, then years. Other men tried to catch her fancy but she dismissed them, focusing on her friends and her work. She’d give in every once in a while to a dinner date here, a coffee date there, but she made sure that the men knew there would be no second date. There was one man who was a bit more persistent than most, a Tom McNally, but eventually he gave up too after some not-so-gentle encouragement from Mycroft. She suspected that Mycroft had figured out that she fancied Sherlock a long time ago. She wasn’t sure if Mycroft knew anything about Sherlock’s feelings towards her, however, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask. She wasn’t sure she wanted to put Sherlock in any position where he might be uncomfortable when he returned. Because she was confident he would return, someday. He was the most brilliant man she’d ever met and she just knew he’d be able to beat the odds and come back to London.

Today she’d had a long day and just wanted to go home, curl up with a warm cup of tea and a good movie on Netflix and relax. She rubbed at the back of her neck as she went to her locker and opened it up, trying to massage some of the kinks out of it. When she looked up, though, she saw she wasn’t alone. She saw Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror and she started, turning around. “Sherlock!”

“Hello, Molly,” he said quietly. He hesitated, and then took a step towards her. “I…how are you?”

“I’m good,” she said, relaxing and giving him a wide smile. She paused a moment and then decided to hell with it. She moved closer and embraced him. “I’m so happy you’re back.”

He slowly embraced her back and held her close. She could feel him bury his nose in her hair, as though he needed all of his senses to register that she was there with him, close. She herself wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek on his chest, content to listen to his heart beat for a moment, strong and steady. “I missed you,” he murmured.

“I missed you too,” she said. They stayed like that for a few more minutes before they pulled apart, with some reluctance. She looked up at him. “Does anyone else know you’re back? I mean, aside from your brother, I’d bet.”

He shook his head. “You were the first. I’m not sure who to tell next. I suppose it should be John, but Mycroft said things are very…different.”

“They are,” she said with a nod. “He’s not at Baker Street. He’d hit a rough spot for a while, but then he met Mary and…well, he got better. He’s happy. And…” She paused.

“And while he might be happy I’m alive, I’ll disrupt his new life,” Sherlock said, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“Maybe. Tonight probably wouldn’t be the best night to tell him, either,” she said quietly. “He’s going to propose to her. He’s been planning it for weeks.”

He looked down. “I see.”

She reached over and put her hand on his arm. “You know, if you want to wait until tomorrow, why don’t you come home with me? I can make you a good meal, and if you want, I have quite a bit of liquor available.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m not much of a drinker,” he said.

“Well, I’m not either, but there are times we all need to make exceptions,” she said sympathetically. She tugged on his arm slightly. “Come on. Home with me?”

He looked down at her arm and then nodded slightly. She lifted her hand up but after a moment he grasped it, squeezing it gently. “Thank you,” he said after a moment.

“You’re welcome,” she said, squeezing back. He gave her a small grin and then let go and she set about gathering up her things. He was back. He was back, and it seemed as though he was okay. This was good. She’d take him home, see that he was fed, see what he needed, and then give it to him. Then tomorrow? Tomorrow they would go from there.


	11. Chapter 11

She’d had to help carry him to bed. The more she told him about the changes everyone had gone through in the last two years, particularly John, the harder it seemed for him to take. She’d had to cut him off when he’d finished off her bottle of single malt whiskey after having the last of her tequila. Of course, there’d only been a third of that bottle left, but still. She had alcohol poisoning to consider. She’d had a bit to drink herself but not _nearly_ as much as Sherlock had. He was going to pay for it in the morning, she could tell.

She’d let him have her bed but not shared it with him, not done a repeat of the last time he’d been there. She’d taken the guest bedroom because she didn’t mind it. He needed his space after all. And besides, he was so knackered from all the booze he wouldn’t even have noticed she was there, she knew that. Still, it might have been nice to have shared a bed with him. She’d enjoyed it the one chance she’d gotten, even if nothing had happened. To be that close to him…it had been a rather sweet torment.

But dwelling on it did no good. Right now she had to plot out what to do about the colossal hangover he would probably have.

She had a few friends who came over and drank. That’s why she had the booze on hand, for them. If she ever indulged in anything it was wine. That was her vice. The more expensive the vintage the better. She had a few bottles with price tags that would make the Queen herself blush that she’d kept safe over the last few years. She seemed to have a preternatural skill to know when the perfect time to drink them was, too. It was a gift, she supposed, one her friends had always taken great delight in exploiting. Not that she minded, of course. It was her pleasure if it allowed her to enjoy a fine glass of wine. But she knew her way around liquors of all types, and she knew her way around hangover cures. Sherlock was in good hands.

She’d just finished setting up the Bloody Mary when she heard a thud in her bedroom. She dashed out of her kitchen and went in to see Sherlock had rolled out of the bed and was groaning on the floor. Part of her wanted to laugh at the sight while the more compassionate part of her wanted to help. Needless to say, that part of her won out. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Rolled over the wrong way,” he said once she’d sat him up against her bed. He was squinting at the bright light in her bedroom. “Close the curtains?”

She nodded and went to her window, drawing her curtains shut and plunging the room into a more darkened state. “Pounding head? Cotton mouth? Upset stomach?”

“Why did you let me drink so much last night?” he said with a groan, tipping his head back.

“It wasn’t a matter of _let_ ,” she said. “You gave me puppy dog eyes whenever I tried to take the bottle away. I’m afraid I’m a sucker for a hang dog expression.”

“You’re supposed to be made of sterner stuff than that,” he said.

“Not when it comes to you, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft laugh, going back to him and squatting next to him. “I thought you knew that.”

“My mind’s muddled, I suppose,” he said. “It’s throbbing and it hurts.”

“I’ll get you aspirin and a glass of water, then,” she said. “And I have a Bloody Mary for you in the kitchen, if you can stand more alcohol.”

“Probably shouldn’t go see anyone else in this state,” he said, moving his head slowly so it was hanging down again.

“No. It might be best if you stay here with me a little longer and try sleeping it off a little more,” she said.

“I could stay here a while longer,” he said, lifting his head back up and reaching for her wrist when she stood up. She looked down at him. “You’d like that.”

“I would,” she said quietly. “But…this isn’t your home, and you said last night you miss your home.”

“I could stay here with you a little while until it’s all right to go home. Until it’s all right to tell them all I’m alive,” he said.

She looked at him. He still hadn’t told her why he’d come back now. “Is it not all right to tell everyone now?” she asked. “Is everyone not safe?”

“No, they’re safe. We’re all safe enough from Moriarty. It’s the new threat. There’s always another threat. It’s the way it goes,” he replied somewhat bitterly. “I’m always on a mission. End one threat, end the next threat, so on, so forth.”

She hesitated a moment, then knelt back down next to him. She took her wrist out of his grasp and then grasped his hand in both of hers. “You can stay here as long as you like, Sherlock. If Mrs. Hudson won’t let you back at Baker Street, or you just feel as though you need to spend time here or…for whatever reason, you’re welcome here, all right? Any time you want to stay here, as long as you need to. Just don’t destroy the place. Just promise me that.”

He gave her a small smile. “I’ll try to keep that promise, Molly.”

“I’ll take that for now, but I’ll definitely remind you of it again when you’re sober.” She squeezed his hands and stood up. “So, aspirin first or Bloody Mary?”

“Aspirin. Not sure if my stomach is up for the Bloody Mary quite yet,” he said.

“It will probably be up for that before solid food,” she pointed out.

“That is true,” he agreed. “But let’s start with the aspirin and then get me back into bed. I think I want to try and sleep more of this off.”

“All right,” she said with a nod, standing up again as she let go of his hands. She made her way to the loo to get him the medicine. She had hoped it was all over. All of the danger, all of the worry and the problems. She should have expected that it wasn’t. That was the life he led. But it wasn’t fair. Still, if she could take some of the burden off his shoulders, she would. It was the very least she could do.


	12. Chapter 12

She got quite used to him around her flat. Mrs. Hudson had allowed him back at Baker Street; she’d been quite ecstatic that he’d come back, actually, and had been more than pleased he’d wanted to come home once she got past her initial shock. But in his frequent visits to her flat he had told her it didn’t feel the same there. It felt different without John. And she understood, she did; whenever she returned to a place she’d been before there was always a sense it was different because the people she cared for weren’t there anymore, the places she had found comfortable weren’t around. So she understood quite well.

She let him make himself at home in her flat. She didn’t bat an eye when she’d come back and find her art neatly stacked in a corner and seeing photos, documents and whatnot were tacked up in its place, connected with string while Sherlock had moved her furniture around so that his preferred chair was in front of it to stare at it, trying to sort it all out. She grew accustomed to somewhat noxious fumes coming from beakers and tubes on her kitchen worktop, and so long as it didn’t get in the way of her cooking she was fine to let it stay there. She was even prepared to let her bedroom be taken over more times a week than it wasn’t, but most nights Sherlock would either stay up all night or dutifully pull himself off to the guest bedroom if she’d already retired for the night.

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the state of their relationship. They were obviously friends; that was apparent to anyone. And while he and John had patched things up and were still quite close, she wasn’t quite sure if they were best mates anymore. Could _she_ have somehow become his best mate? She’d like more. She’d wanted more since she first laid eyes on him outside the coffee shop. She had always known they were supposed to be destined for more. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe Sherlock was…well, Sherlock, and he’d never feel the way about her that she did about him and best mates was all she would get. Maybe the kiss in her sitting room before he had gone away would be the closest she would ever get at physical intimacy with him.

She let herself into her flat and was surprised to find him there but nothing out of the ordinary. No experiments, no case wall, nothing like that. He was moving around her kitchen like he belonged there, stirring something one minute, leaning over and checking something in the oven the next. “Sherlock?” she asked, not wanting to startle him but curious as to what exactly he was doing.

“I can see now why they say cooking is calming,” he said, closing the door to the oven. “Following a set of instructions on how to make a dish is just like following the steps to an experiment. Very neat and very orderly, when it’s explained well. I hope I didn’t muck it up too much.”

She smiled as she put her handbag on the table and took her coat off. “So just what are you attempting to make?” she asked.

“Creamy mushroom fettuccine, which I found amongst your recipes,” he said. “There are also green beans with a sherried mushroom sauce and a cranberry-raspberry pie for dessert.”

“Well, it certainly smells as though you did a good job,” she said as she walked into her kitchen to join him. “Is there any particular reason why you felt the need to do all this?”

“John asked me to be his best man,” he said quietly, turning his attention back to the stove.

She nodded, going for her refrigerator and getting out her wine. “I see.” She pulled a glass down from the cabinet. “You did say yes, right?”

He gave her a slight scowl. “Yes. Of course I did.”

“Good.” She poured herself some wine. “I think he picked the perfect man for the job.”

“I have no idea what to do in a situation like that,” he said, gripping the handle of his wooden spoon tightly. “I…he’s important to me. I don’t want to ruin his day.”

“And you won’t,” she said, placing her hand over his on the spoon. “Mary already said I’ll be invited to the wedding. Just look for me if you get nervous and I’ll give you a smile to reassure you.”

He looked down at their hands. “You are very good at that, you know. Reassuring me.”

“Well, it’s what friends do,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “I just suppose there are times I think…” He trailed off and then stopped.

“Sherlock?” she asked quietly.

“Do you know I had one regret, the entire time I was gone?” he said quietly, moving his hand away from hers to take care of the food. “It was that I only kissed you once. The whole time I was here, and I had only kissed you once, and it was more of a thank you than it was a proper kiss.”

She felt a sense of hope ignite in her at his words. “Well, you’re here now,” she said, looking up at him. “You have a chance to give me a proper kiss, if you want.”

“Do you want me to, though?” he asked, turning to look at her. “Do you still love me?”

She nodded, stepping towards him. “I never stopped, Sherlock. And I doubt I ever will.”

After a moment he moved his arms to her waist, pulling her closer, closing the gap between them. She reached up and framed his face in her hands. “I am glad for that,” he murmured before he leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. There was definitely a difference between this kiss and the last one, she realized as he slid his arms around her to pull her as close as he could, as she wrapped her arms around him and lifted herself up to deepen the kiss. There was a spark of passion there this time that threatened to engulf her in its flames. She just knew she needed him. Oh, she needed him so much. And when he pulled away to catch his breath she could see in his eyes that he needed her too. Whatever their relationship was going to be now, she realized, it was much closer to what she had wanted. She just hoped it was everything she had hoped it would be.


	13. Chapter 13

They should have realized that nothing would ever go according to plan at an event between any of them. The murder foiled at John and Mary’s wedding should really have been expected, all things considered, as should have been Sherlock’s best man speech. It had been charming in its own way, she had thought to herself, though she realized she was probably in the minority in that. But all in all, it was going to give John and Mary one hell of a memorable wedding to talk about for years to come.

She had watched it all from the sidelines, seated amongst the guests, and now as Sherlock played his waltz for John and Mary she stood at the side and watched them glide around the cleared off space. She’d been privy to bits and pieces of the waltz as Sherlock composed it, but he’d wanted to keep it as much a secret as possible. But it really was quite lovely, perfectly suited for her friends and the beginning of their new lives together. She watched as John dipped his wife and then straightened her up, the both of them wearing wide smiles on their faces as the violin piece came to an end.

Sherlock lowered his violin and bow as the guests all clapped and John pulled Mary close, kissing her. She felt a pang at that, at watching her friends be happy. She had felt it at every wedding she attended, and she’d been to more than she could remember over the many years she’d been alive. She never regretted going, of course; there was always something wonderful about a wedding, about the public declaration of love between two people and the start of a new life together, but something bittersweet that she would never get it. Even now, even with what she had with Sherlock, she would probably never get all this. It just…it would probably never be feasible. 

Sherlock went to talk to John and Mary as the disc jockey took over the music and the other guests went out onto the floor. Something they were talking about seemed to surprise them, as Mary moved one hand to her abdomen and another to her open mouth, and then there were looks of utter joy on both their faces as they moved together, holding each other close. After a moment Sherlock moved away, going to the violin to put it away properly. Molly moved around the guests and then went to his side. “They looked quite surprised,” she said.

“Well, when you inform the bride that she’s pregnant, that tends to happen,” he said.

She gave him a smile. “Oh, that must have been quite a shock.” She glanced over at John and Mary, seeing they were dancing quite close, cheek to cheek. “It seems they’re happy with the news.”

“I think they are,” he said with a nod. He finished latching the violin case and then turned to her. “Do you want to stay here for a while?”

She looked around. “I don’t know. It would be nice to have a dance or two with you, I think. But we could easily do that elsewhere.”

“You just want me away from the maid of honour,” he said with a small smile.

“Well, she was eyeing you like a side of beef,” she said with a soft laugh. She reached over and smoothed down the lapels of his suit jacket. “Is she still looking over here at you?”

Sherlock looked away from Molly for a moment, then turned back to her, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “She has her sights on someone else.”

“Then I suppose I have no reason to kiss you,” she said.

“Do you really need a reason?” he asked, teasing her slightly.

“Not really,” she said, leaning in and kissing him softly. He moved his hands to her waist and kept her close as he kissed her back until they had to pull away to catch their breath. She held onto his lapels a little more tightly. “Why don’t we go somewhere else more private?”

He nodded. “All right,” he said quietly. He pulled away from her and reached for his violin case, and once they had gotten their coats the two of them left the reception, hand in hand. John and Mary had made sure there would be cars available for those who needed them, and she and Sherlock got into one and had it take them back to Baker Street. They stayed close in the back of the car, kissing each other every once in a while or touching each other gently. They had been staying close more often, in the weeks that had led up to today, though nothing much had happened, and it had been nice, but she had the feeling tonight something more might happen.

He took her hand when they got to Baker Street, leading her to the door. The first thing to go when they got inside the door was her hat. She was rather fond of the hat, she supposed, but Sherlock tossed it carelessly in the foyer before sliding his hands to frame her face and lean in to kiss her. She could suffer its loss if something happened to it, she realized, as she moved as close as she could to him. “Sherlock?” she asked, pulling away a bit and looking up at him.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Do you…want…things to go further tonight?” she asked, moving her hands down his chest. “I mean, if they do, that means this…us…we’ll be…”

“We’ll be in an actual relationship and I’ll have to start referring to myself as your boyfriend,” he said, moving his lips to her neck. “I’ll have to introduce you to my parents at some point, I suppose. I’ll have to actually remember to call you if I get involved in a case. But I suppose I can make allowances if I’m allowed to see you whenever I can, or kiss you whenever I want, and you can do the same with me.” He moved his hand to the zipper of her dress and began lowering it. “The real question is, do _you_ want things to go further?”

“More than anything,” she said as his fingers skimmed the bare skin of her back and she moved her hands back up to begin undoing his tie.

“Then I propose we should do a little less talking and use our mouths for other purposes,” he said, moving his hand back up to peel her dress away from her shoulder to press a kiss there.

She shut her eyes. “I could agree to that, but…perhaps in the privacy of your bedroom?”

He pulled away from her, causing her to open her eyes, and then he knelt down and picked her up in his arms. “I suppose that isn’t too much to ask,” he said, beginning to head in that direction. She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled to herself. She was quite pleased at this turn of events, and she couldn’t wait to see what this evening held for the two of them.


	14. Chapter 14

She was happy. She was unbelievably happy. She had thought she had known joy before but this…this was something new. She was being careful, though; Sherlock was still famous and there were still people who wanted to delve into every facet of his personal life, but she managed to keep most of them at bay. Mycroft helped with that quite a bit. She almost wondered if Mycroft had figured out there was something unusual about her, but she made his brother happy and kept him in check and that made her important to keep around.

He was dozing in bed and she was quietly trying to gather her things. She never stayed overnight at Baker Street, and he never stayed overnight at her flat. It drew less attention that way. Made things easier. She had her bra and knickers on and was searching for her dress. She found it wadded in a heap by the door. She bent down to pick it up when she heard his bed creak slightly. “Sod it all and stay the night,” he said.

She turned and saw that he was sitting up, the sheet thrown haphazardly around his midsection, covering up the parts of his anatomy that weren’t usually seen in polite society. She shook her head as she shook out her dress and then stepped into it. “We’re trying not to draw attention to our relationship, remember? If I walk out of here in the morning in this dress, everyone will know. There are still reporters with cameras who spend time around Baker Street.”

He sighed and then flopped back down on the bed. “Then what’s the point of all this? We’re consenting adults. We’re grown people who want to have a relationship with each other.”

She was quiet for a moment. She knew she should tell him the truth about her, that she was immortal, that she could never be hurt, that she never aged. That sometime soon, probably in the next five to seven years, she’d have to leave London, and if the world knew who she was by her association with him it would make things that much harder for her. “Do you want to end things?” she asked instead, dreading his answer.

“No,” he said with absolute certainty. She moved over to the bed, her dress still unzipped, and sat next to him. He reached over and pulled her down so she was lying down next to him, and he wrapped his arms around her. “I feel…complete…with you. I don’t know how else to explain it. When I finally realized how I felt towards you, that I cared for you as more than a friend, there was a sense of wholeness to it all. That being with you I felt…more.”

She ran a finger down his chest. “Have you ever read Plato’s _The Symposium_ before?” she asked. He shook his head. “There’s a part of it where he talks about the theory of soul mates. He says that according to Greek mythology, when humans were originally created, they didn’t look the way they do now. They had four arms and four legs, and their heads had two faces.”

“They sound like abominations,” Sherlock said.

She smiled slightly. “Well, Zeus, the ruler of the gods, feared the power that they had, so he used his power and split them into two separate parts and condemned them to spend the rest of their lives in search of their other halves. And that is where the theory of soul mates comes from.”

“And you think that’s why I feel complete with you?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” she said as he pulled an arm away from her, reaching for her hand and pulling it away to bring it to his lips. “There are many things in the world that can’t be explained. Even a man of science like yourself has to admit that.”

“I suppose,” he conceded. “Though I like to say that it’s just because we haven’t found the explanation yet.”

“Though would you accept there are some things that defy explanation?” she asked, shutting her eyes as he began to kiss her fingertips.

“Possibly,” he said. He spent time on each fingertip, then moved to her palm, and then the underside of her wrist. “But at the moment I think I would like to concentrate on other things.”

“Oh?” she asked. “Such as?”

“Getting you back to the state you were in before you left this bed and at least convincing you to spend a few more hours here before you leave,” he said. She opened her eyes and started at his eyes, saw the brilliant eyes that held their own form of universes so similar to those of her mother’s staring back. She could get lost in those eyes so very easily, she realized. He lowered her arm and then reached for her before leaning in to kiss her lips, and then after a moment she realized she had lost the battle. She’d stay a few more hours, indulge him tonight.

But soon…soon she would need to tell him the truth. Soon she would need to tell him the entire truth and pray that he was open minded enough to stay, that he cared enough to want a future with her, as long as he had left on this earth, or else she would find her heart broken and she wasn’t sure she could bear it. But either way, she had the feeling she couldn’t put it off much longer.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
>  _Art by **[Sherlolly29_belle](http://sherlolly29.tumblr.com/post/135581452705/oh-my-the-2015-sherlolly-big-bang-challenge-has)**_   
> 

“When you said you were going to take me out on a date tonight, Sherlock, I didn’t think you meant on a stakeout,” she chided, but she was simply teasing. In truth, she enjoyed doing things like this with him. She enjoyed spending as much time with him as she could, to be perfectly honest, no matter what they were doing. Ever since he had admitted how he really felt, they had been almost inseparable. And while she hadn’t told him the truth, and it was gnawing at her conscience that she should, she was enjoying the time with him.

“Well, I hadn’t expected to, but Geoff asked for my assistance,” he said, adjusting the binoculars he was looking through.

“His name is Greg,” she said, shaking her head, smile on her face. “You have to know that by now, don’t you?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I do know his proper name, but it’s more fun to pretend I don’t.”

“Well, as long as you remember mine, that’s all that matters,” she said with a soft laugh.

“Molly…short for Margaret?” he asked.

She paused. “Yes,” she said after a moment. She had picked Molly this time because it was a simple name and it just rather popped. Margaret seemed so old fashioned and staid. Molly had been rather cute and girly and, yes, maybe a _tad_ old fashioned, but she _was_ very old, after all. Most of her aliases had been just a wee bit dated. “Margaret Elizabeth Hooper.”

“I’m rather glad you don’t go by Margaret,” he said. “Or worse, Marge.”

She laughed softly again. “Oh no. That just…is so not me.”

“Did you ever have any nicknames as a child?” he asked.

She shook her head and then stopped. “My mother…she would call me her little miracle and her little blessing,” she said softly. “I…wasn’t planned. Or rather, I wasn’t expected at all. No one thought my mother could have children. I was a surprise.”

Sherlock looked as though he wanted to ask more when there was a beeping on the device he had beside him. She knew it was telling him that the silent alarm the museum had installed in the exhibit had been tripped. “I didn’t see anyone go inside this entrance,” he said with a frown.

“Maybe they were already inside,” she said. “Security, perhaps.”

Realization dawned on him. “An inside job,” he said. “We need to get in there, quickly.” They scrambled from their position across from the service entrance to the museum. Sherlock had been given the code to get inside and when they got to the door he keyed it in. “Stay close behind me.” She nodded, keeping in step as they moved to the exhibit where the Russian antiques were being kept. As they approached they saw two men in security guard uniforms looting the exhibit. They didn’t realize Sherlock and Molly were there, and Sherlock managed to creep up behind one of them and put him into a hold, incapacitating him.

Sherlock had just lowered the man to the ground when his accomplice realized they’d been caught in the act. He reached for the closest thing to him, a jeweled dagger. “Stay back!” he shouted.

“Give yourself up,” Sherlock said, moving closer to the man.

“No,” he said. “You don’t…you don’t understand!” The man bolted towards the exit, but Molly tried to stop him, tripping him. He ended up crashing into her and she could feel the dagger slide into her chest between her ribs, right into her heart.

“Molly!” Sherlock yelled as the man pulled himself away, eyes wide with horror at what he’d done.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” he said. He scrambled to his feet and tried to bolt to the door as Molly sat up, pulled the dagger from her chest and lobbed it at the man. It was a sloppy throw, she knew, but it sliced at his shoulder and he cried out in pain, clutching it and stopping in his tracks. 

Sherlock stared at Molly with wide eyes before she nodded to the man. “Go…get him restrained,” she said before she lay back down. She had not wanted the truth to come out like this. No, not at all. She had not wanted him to see it happen like this. She had wanted to tell him herself, to break it to him gently, not watch her survive an injury that should have killed her instantly.

There was near silence in the museum, aside from the man gibbering on about what had just happened until she heard Sherlock slug him across the face to knock him out cold. The silence after that was wonderful, she realized as she felt the strength seep out of her. A wound like this wouldn’t kill her but it would make her very weak. She needed to go somewhere and rest for a little bit while she healed. Finally, she saw Sherlock come back over to her. “You…” he said, looking at her, at her blood stained shirt, at the hole where the dagger had been.

“I’ll explain later,” she said, her voice quiet. “I need to get somewhere, lie down for a while. I need to get my strength back.” Her eyes began to flutter closed. “I’ll answer your questions later, Sherlock, I promise, but…I need to rest now.” And then, as she felt him slip his arms under her and lift her up, the last of her energy flowed out of her and she was lost to unconsciousness. Hopefully he would take her someplace safe, and be there when she woke up.

Hopefully.


	16. Chapter 16

She came to on his sofa, finding herself only in her bra and skirt. He’d taken off her flats at some point when he’d laid her out on the sofa. She stared down at her chest, saw the dried blood and the area where there should have been a wound and then groaned softly. She looked around, sitting up, and saw him in his kitchen, nursing a glass of something. He had turned to look at her when she groaned. “You should be dead,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I know,” she said with a nod.

“You should be dead, and you’re not.” He looked at the drink in his hand and then took a large gulp. “You don’t even have a wound. You have no marks whatsoever.” He turned to look at her. “What are you?”

“I’m immortal,” she said. “Impervious to harm. When I hit thirty-four I simply stopped aging, so I have eternal youth as well.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then came over to the sofa with his glass and a bottle of what she could see was whisky. She pulled her legs in closer to her. “How is this possible?”

She was quiet a moment. Well, he seemed to have accepted this much. She supposed she could tell him more. “Have you ever read a comic series by Neil Gaiman called ‘The Sandman’?” she asked. “It ran from…1989 to 1995, I think. Or maybe 1996. It’s a brilliant series. It’s one of my absolute favorite things to read, even if it’s a bit dark at times. I mean, with the first issue having the massacre at the diner, and the second issue having the serial killer convention…” She trailed off as she saw Sherlock’s eyes bulging. “Never mind. The thing is, the stories deal with Morpheus, who is the anthropomorphic personification of dreams, and his brothers and sisters, who are known as The Endless. And one of them is a perky Goth who’s the personification of Death. That would basically be what my mum is.”

“Your mother is Death,” Sherlock said flatly.

“The anthropomorphic personification of death,” Molly corrected. “I mean, she isn’t a Goth, and for most of my life she wasn’t exactly chipper.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose I should go back a ways. My mum’s been around since the first speck of life came to being in the universe. She’ll be the last one to see how it all ends. She’s the oldest, and she’ll live the longest. And she knew, if she ever gave her heart to someone, she’d have to live with the pain of knowing they were gone for millennia. So she vowed never to love anyone, never to allow herself that. But then she met my father and she knew, deep down, that he was meant to be hers and no one else’s.”

“When did she meet him?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, as though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

She bit her lip and looked down. “342 B.C. He was sent to Pella tutor Alexander.”

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “You predate _Christianity_?!?” he hissed

She nodded. “Yes, I do. I’m older than Jesus Christ,” she said. “And to be perfectly frank, I’ll probably out exist Christianity, or at least the sorry excuse for it that exists these days.”

That appeared to draw him up short. “Just what type of religion do you follow?” he asked, curiously.

“I’m not sure how to classify it so I just say I’m pagan,” she said with a shrug. “I mean, how do I explain that the very essences of humanity are my aunts and uncles or whatever else it is they choose to be? It’s easier to say I believe in the various gods and goddesses they’ve come to be known as over millennia.”

“So all the gods and goddesses of death…?” he asked slowly.

“All one version or another of my mum. Most of the time she was seen as male…Mot, Maweth, Thanatos, King Yan, King Yama, the Great King Enma, the Great King Yŏmna, Diêm La Vương, Azrail… Śmierć, Hel, Giltinė, Izanami, La Santa Muerte or San La Muerte, depending on whether you're in Mexico or further south, those are more exceptions.” She paused for a moment as she thought some more. “Mictecacihuatl is another female one, though that's much lesser known these days. Irish people used to see her as a dullahan, which are pretty gruesome, and I know Scottish people used to think she was a black, dark green or white dog that they'd call a Cù Sìth. The worst was in Scandanavia, during the Black Plague. Then she'd be Pesta, and she'd have to show up with a rake or a broom. I always hated it when she had to take the broom."

“What did the broom mean?” he asked.

“Well, the broom meant the whole village was going to be wiped out,” she said. “But if she left with the rake, it meant that people would live. Maybe not a whole lot, but it wouldn’t depopulate the village.”

“So all of them, all those gods and goddesses and whatnot, they were your mum?” he asked, reaching over for more whiskey.

She nodded. “However the culture needed to see her, that’s how they saw her, and if they worshipped her that way, she came to them that way if she was going to come to them at all. Most people don’t see her until they’re going to die. Then you can see her. I mean, she _can_ make herself be seen if she chooses. If she has a reason to. Sometimes people wanted to die before their time and she talked them out of it, even when she was distraught herself. She knew they had great things to accomplish and it wasn’t their time yet.”

He poured himself a pretty hefty measure of the whiskey before lifting it up and looking at it. “I’ve seen someone stab you in the heart with a dagger tonight, and you pulled it out and hit them in the arm as they went running away. And you’re perfectly fine, no wound, not even a faint line. Just dried blood. And you say your mother’s Death and you’re over two thousand years old.”

“That about sums it up,” she said quietly. “I…this is too much, isn’t it?”

“A bit, yeah,” he said. “But I don’t think I’m going to run off into the hills screaming.”

She relaxed. “That’s good,” she said.

“It might take some time to get used to it all,” he said. “I don’t know how long or anything like that, but…give me time, all right?”

“Space, too?” she asked quietly.

He had just started to drink the whiskey after she spoke, and he pulled the glass away, setting it down. He pulled her onto his lap and then traced the area where there should have been a mark from the dagger. “No. Not space. Even if you’re crazy and it’s all in your head and this is all just a mass hallucination or an elaborate prank, I can’t get enough of you. I need you in my life.” He reached behind her and undid her bra easily before reaching up and lowering a strap. “You’re an intoxicating drug to my senses and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get enough of you.”

“That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, reaching forward to pull at the hem of his shirt. “Have any more lines like that?”

He let her pull his shirt off and then he reached up for the other strap of her bra. “You’re exquisite. I doubt there is another woman like you on the face of the earth. And if there is, I doubt she’s half as interesting and a tenth as beautiful.” He pulled the straps off her arms and then pulled the bra away from her body, flinging it carelessly over his shoulder when he pulled it all the way off. He pressed a kiss between her bare breasts and she shut her eyes, moving her fingers to his hair. “I want to worship at your altar for the rest of my days.”

“If that’s an eloquent way of saying you want to shag me into the mattress—” she said.

“It is,” he interjected. “As often as I can for as long as you’ll let me.”

“Then by all means, let’s move somewhere more comfortable,” she said, moving her hands so that she could tip his face up to look at hers. He might believe her, he might not, but he was irresistible. He was maddening and brilliant and dashing and charismatic and, all right, a bit rude and far too immodest but she loved him. She loved every inch of him, not just his body but his soul, and no matter how brief their time together was she was going to hold onto every second that she could.


	17. Chapter 17

They’d made it to his bed at a later point and eventually had exhausted themselves. Alcohol had no effect on her but she’d seen the effect it had on humans and the fact that the bottle had been full the last time she’d been to his flat and nearly half empty by the time he’d brought it over to the sofa said she’d been unconscious for a little while the night before for him to drink that much. He’d probably be nursing a bit of a hangover, and so she thought she’d make him breakfast and something to take care of that pesky problem.

She knew her own shirt was thrashed, wherever it was, and so she looked around and spotted a purple button down shirt folded up on top of a pile of clean shirts on the chair by his dresser. She pulled it off the pile and put it on, buttoning it most of the way up. Her knickers she found easily enough, and she slipped those on. The skirt was a bit harder and since she didn’t want to wake Sherlock up she went out without it, praying Mrs. Hudson didn’t stop by for a visit. She had never been the type to actually stay the night with any of the countless men she’d been with, and she hadn’t stayed at Baker Street before, so this was a first.

Countless men she’d been with. If he asked how many there had been she’d have to say countless. There had been dry spells; whole decades of dry spells, even an entire century at one or two points. But she’d had carnal knowledge of her fair share of men over the years, and that was rather daunting for anyone to live up to. She wasn’t sure she wanted Sherlock trying to live up to the challenge. She wasn’t sure he could survive it, to be honest. She’d had a few inventive lovers.

She hoped he could handle it, handle _her_ , now that he knew the meek pathologist persona was all a sham. And she hoped other things, too: if he could handle things, that he would come with her when she eventually had to leave because she didn’t grow old. That he would understand when she got so very angry that he was fading before her eyes, his life just a grain in the hourglass of her life. That even though that was the case, no matter how long she existed he would always have her heart.

She made her way into the kitchen and saw a woman standing there. She didn’t need to know who she had been to know who she was now. “Hello, Mum,” Molly said as she caught a glimpse of the woman’s eyes. They held universes, which was a dead giveaway that the woman was a receptacle for her mother’s presence. “I had rather hoped you’d wait until I was at home before we had a chat.”

“It’s happened,” the woman said, her mother’s voice overriding the woman’s own voice in a strange dual layered effect. Her mother’s voice was dominant while the other woman’s voice was the underlying tone. “You’ve met him.”

Molly stared, wide eyed. “You knew I was going to meet him one day, didn’t you?” she asked.

The woman nodded. “There is not much that is set in stone but this, your relationship with this man, we’ve all known it was coming from the dawn of time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Molly hissed. “You could have warned me. You could have told me he’d be mortal.” She turned her back on the woman holding her mother’s essence. “I’ve spent over two thousand years trying to avoid falling in love. I didn’t want to have what happened to you happen to me. I didn’t want to be bitter and heartbroken that it was all taken away.”

“My love, my miracle, that was not why I was bitter,” she said, coming to stand in front of Molly. “Your father couldn’t acknowledge us in public. We were not his public family. We were his secret. That was why I was bitter. I saw his name go down in history but there was no way we could ever be acknowledged.” The woman framed Molly’s face in her hands. “Each time I’ve lived the life of a mortal I’ve experienced hardship, but I’ve also experienced compassion and love and warmth. I suppose my sadness and cynicism comes from how little of it I see in the world. But I look at you, my precious gift, and I see you brimming with it despite the world trying to beat it out of you.”

“Are you living the life of a mortal now?” she asked.

The woman shook her head. “No. I just finished my turn. I was a brilliant physician in Nigeria, hit by a car on my way home one evening after celebrating the birth of my granddaughter. That’s the way it always goes. A life is given for the one I am inhabiting when I depart. But I did wonderful things, saved many people who will go on to do brilliant work. I did my part in making the world a better place.”

“I’m glad,” Molly said, smiling despite herself. “How old were you this time?”

“I got to live for fifty-six years. I had a wife and two sons, who I got to see reach adulthood. It was a blessed life.” The woman leaned forward and kissed Molly’s forehead. “Your William has a blessed life ahead of him now. A blessed life with you, for as long as he has left on this earth. No need to worry about any more enemies making his life hard.” Molly frowned as she pulled away. “Dear one? What is it?”

“What if…what if I don’t want to go on, when he goes?” she asked quietly, looking down. “What if I can’t bear to?”

The woman moved her hands to tilt Molly’s face up as she studied her. “How much do you love the mortal?” she asked.

“With all my heart,” Molly answered quietly. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone on the face of the earth.”

The woman gazed at her for a long time, and then nodded. “If you still love him with all your heart, at the end of his life, then we’ll speak on this subject again.” She pulled away. “I promise I’ll release this woman when I am out of his home. I don’t think you’d want to explain your state of undress to her.”

“No, not really,” Molly said with a grin. “Come see me in my dreams more often, Mum, all right?”

The woman nodded, giving Molly a smile almost exactly like how she remembered her mother’s were. “All right. Take care, my dearest.” And with that she left Baker Street and Molly went back to doing what she had originally planned on doing.

It was maybe a half hour later when Sherlock shuffled out in pyjama pants and his bare feet. She had made coffee already and so she poured him a cup, adding two spoonfuls of sugar, and then got him two aspirin. “Your father…was he _really_ Aristotle?” he asked when he’d had a sip.

“I wasn’t sure you’d caught that,” she said with a laugh as she flipped another pancake. “Yes, Aristotle was my father. My lineage was kept a secret, but I knew my half-sister Pythias and my half-brother Nichomacus. I knew the woman who bore my half-brother. I even knew my father’s eromenos Palaephatus. It was all very interesting. ”

“What was your name?” he asked.

“Khthonia,” she said. “It means ‘of the earth’ but also ‘of the underworld,’ which is appropriate, given that my mother is Death.”

“And your childhood?” he asked.

“It was typical for a child in Macedon who was connected to royalty. It continued when we followed him back to Athens,” she said. “A life of leisure, for the most part, though my father taught me everything he knew. He knew my mother was unique and that something about me was unique as well. My mother referred to me as a miracle, and I was treated as such by her and my father, although he did so in secret.”

“How were you a miracle?” he asked.

“My mother inhabits the body of a mortal every few hundred years or so,” she said, putting the finished pancakes on the plate. “When she’s in that body, she lives their life as them, having no memory of who she actually is until she is near death. Then she remembers everything. It’s her way of staying connected to humans. But many millennia ago, she didn’t do it that way. She walked among humans as a…well, as a rather otherworldly figure. She appeared mortal but really wasn’t. And she wasn’t supposed to have children. But she had me, to the surprise of everyone.” She thought back to her mother’s comment this morning. “Except her, apparently.”

“You said you had aunts and uncles. Are those the everyone?” he asked.

She nodded. “Do you remember the comic series I brought up last night?”

“Yes,” he said.

“The author got it rather right, in a way. He called them The Endless, which I suppose they are. But there are so many more than just the seven he wrote about. I have…I don’t know how many aunts and uncles. So so many. But my mother is the oldest, and the wisest. Unlike in the comics, where Dream is the de facto leader, that’s my mum’s position.”

“Is there one for Life?” he asked, having another sip of his coffee.

She shook her head. “The others make up every aspect of life, so there’s no need. My mum was first, but then when humanity came about, then the others came. I suppose if things were different you could almost say my mum’s the big sister to a bunch of toddlers, with the way they act. But they are dear to me.”

He looked over at her. “It’s still hard to understand.”

“I know. And I’ll answer any questions you have, I swear. I won’t even say if they’re foolish or anything like that.” She poured more batter onto the griddle. “I should have these finished shortly. You can have some of the ones on the plate, if you’d like.”

She saw something in his eyes, a sort of heat she’d seen countless times before, but this time it sent a sense of anticipation towards her that she’d never felt before. He set his coffee on the worktop and then moved closer, reaching over to turn the heat off the stovetop. “I’d rather have something else this morning,” he said.

“Eventually I do need to go into work,” she said, though she grinned as she said it. “People might start to worry.”

“Forty-eight hour flu,” he said, closing the gap between them and running his hands under her shirt to settle them on her waist. “Then you and I can hole up here for two days and you can tell me more about what your life’s been like when we’re not shagging each other senseless.”

“You know, I’ve waited years to have something like this happen,” she said, winding her arms around his neck.

“We don’t have as much time as I would like,” he said more seriously. “We’ve already wasted too much.”

She leaned in and kissed him softly. “Then we just make the best of what we’ve got left,” she said.

“Even when I’m old and gray and useless and you’re young and beautiful and vibrant?” he asked.

She nodded. “Even then. We make the best of every second of every day, all right?”

The kiss he responded with took her breath away. There was agreement there, but there was also a promise. He’d accepted that they might have the rest of his life, and that would be a drop in the hat for her even if it was another forty or fifty or sixty years for him, but for all of it they would make the most of it. And as she realized that and the kiss became passionate she knew then, without him saying the words, that he loved her so very much. Maybe he would never actually say the words, and that was fine, but she knew in her heart that William Sherlock Scott Holmes loved her, and that was all she needed.


	18. Chapter 18

They decided to leave London earlier than needed to explore the world, live a life of adventure while they could, leave behind the memories of things that had hurt. He had gone willingly, which had surprised her. He never seemed to mind leaving behind the fame and the cases with the publicity, settling down with smaller cases when he took them at all. He seemed to be content enough with her, and while for a time she worried that he would change his mind, that he would leave her and break her heart, it went away as he convinced her time and again that he planned to stay.

They got to see the world together, and she loved that. It had been lovely to see so many places with someone else. After so many years of seeing the world on her own having company while she got to explore the world was wonderful, was exactly what she had hoped for. She would tell him the real history of the places they would go, and he was always quite eager to listen, to learn more about her past. He would always follow up those stories with a nuzzle to the neck, a soft kiss, and if they could get away there would be time spent worshiping each other as she whispered more stories of times long past.

They’d been traveling for about ten years when she began to feel ill, feeling nauseous first thing in the morning. She thought nothing of it at first, but slowly she started to hope that perhaps the impossible had happened, and a visit from her mum in her dreams confirmed the fact that she was indeed pregnant. She had no clue as to whether their child would be mortal like him or immortal like her or something in between, but she was happy for it. She had wanted to be a mum more and more over the last few years, to share in the wonderful experience with Sherlock, and it appeared as though they would get their chance.

She had been quite nervous in telling Sherlock, though, unsure as to whether he would be happy. He was in his mid-forties, and she was worried he would feel it was too late to be a father. She needn’t have worried, though; he was quite pleased about it. It was then, though, that the realities of the situation began to sink in. He was still in contact with his friends and family, but he wasn’t sure what to tell them, or how much, or whether there should be pictures to share. He, obviously, had aged, but Molly still looked exactly as she had when she bumped into him outside the coffee shop near Barts nearly seventeen years ago. It had tempered his enthusiasm a bit but Molly did her best with make-up to appear older for pictures.

She went through the pregnancy without many complications, and in due course Amarantos Elizabeth Holmes was born. Molly had wanted to give her a simple name but Sherlock had done research and wanted to honor Molly’s true heritage, and had discovered that Amarantos was an Old Greek flower name derived from the name of the amaranth flower and meant "unfading," and felt that was appropriate for a daughter of theirs, and she didn’t have the heart to refuse him. When it came time to choose a last name, while Sherlock and Molly had never been properly married she insisted that their daughter have her father’s last name, as tradition dictated. 

Sherlock was a doting father and Molly loved to watch the two of them together. They traveled for a bit more when Amarantos was young, with Sherlock making frequent trips back to London with daughter in tow while Molly was busy with “important projects” so that friends and family could see him and the child he so adored. It pained her somewhat, at times, but it was for the best, she knew that. And it wasn’t as though she was without things to do or people to spend time with on her own; her aunts and uncles in all their guises would pay visits and dote on her and her family. They had taken to Sherlock and Amarantos and loved them as dearly as they loved their dear little Khthonia.

Soon, though, Amarantos grew, and Sherlock grew older, and it was time to find a place to settle. Molly had generally avoided small villages but when Sherlock turned eighty and Amarantos was nearing the age where Molly had stopped aging, she decided it was time for them to find a place to settle down and let Sherlock live in comfort as long as he had left. They lived with the ruse that Molly was Sherlock’s caretaker and Amarantos was his granddaughter, and no one seemed to bat an eye at the arrangement. Even in a village where tongues would wag, no one spoke of the arrangement in the Holmes household, whatever it really was.

When Sherlock got ill just shy of his eighty-seventh birthday, Molly knew the end was near. The wracking cough from the years of smoking he’d done from university up until he’d finally given it up for good when they started traveling had caught up with him, and even with the advances in medicine and the remarkable rate of survival in lung cancer treatment she knew soon enough her mother was going to come collect him. And it was all right, she supposed; they’d had a good life together, nearly fifty years. More than that, if you counted their time as friends and colleagues. It was a small drop of time in her life, but it had been the best fifty years of her life.

She was curled up next to him in the bed, her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest. He had refused the treatments that would make him weak and frail, wanting to have his strength when his time came. She knew he was in pain but he bore it well. He turned to look at her. “She’ll be here soon,” he said.

She tightened her grip slightly. “I know. I can feel it, too,” she said. She felt tears fall from her eyes and she shut them to try and keep them back. “I…”

“We had a good life together,” he said, moving his head slightly to press his lips into her hair. “That’s more than most people get.”

“I know,” she said quietly. He was so calm, and she could feel her heart breaking, bit by bit. She was going to have to go on without him, without her best friend, her soul mate, the person who she loved with all her heart. She didn’t want to. She wished… She looked up when she heard footsteps enter the room. She saw Amarantos leading a hooded woman in, a woman she had not seen in so long, she realized as she lowered the hood. “Mum,” she said quietly.

“I thought, perhaps, it was best if, at least once, he saw me in something close to my true state,” the woman said, smiling at the two of them. “You have made my daughter quite happy these last fifty years, William. I thank you for that.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, reaching for Molly’s hand on his chest and grasping it.

“I do not normally grant this boon, but I do not want to see her suffer,” Death said. “I do not want her heart to break, to see her plunged into sadness. If you would like eternal life, William, I could grant that. I cannot give you back your youth, I’m afraid. Time has taken that from you and I cannot steal it back, but I can take away your infirmity and give you immortality and imperviousness to harm.”

Sherlock looked at Molly. They had talked about this, many times. She knew what his answer would be, as much as it saddened her. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” he said. “I have lost far too much already, and I’m not sure I can stand to lose more, even with Molly by my side. And without my youth…”

Death nodded. “I understand.”

“Though if you want me to…” he said quietly to Molly as fresh tears sprung at the corners of her eyes.

She shook her head, letting go of her hand and cupping his cheek. “No. No, it’s all right. If it had been offered before, it might have been different, but…” She edged herself up slightly and rested her forehead against his, shutting her eyes. “I’ll be fine without you. I’ll try to be fine. I know you want me to be happy and I’ll try, I promise I will.” Her voice broke as she spoke, but she managed to get it out as he moved his arm around her.

“There is one other thing I can do,” Death said softly. “I can take away your immortality, Khthonia. You are not as I and the others are. You are part mortal. You can choose to embrace mortality. My miracle, if you want to, you can be with him for eternity in the hereafter. You do not have to spend the rest of your existence alone.”

“I can?” Molly asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Death said. “Let your heart decide what is right for you, what pain it can bear.”

She pulled away from Sherlock and looked at Amarantos. “Love…”

“It’s all right, Mum,” she said, her voice choking up. “You two…you belong together. I’ve known that my whole life.”

Molly pulled away from Sherlock and went to her daughter, hugging her tight. “I love you. I love you so much. You’re a miracle, you know that, don’t you? You’re a miracle and I’ve been glad for you every single day, and I will always _always_ be proud of you.”

Amarantos nodded. “I know.” When Molly pulled away there were tears in her eyes. “Dad, I love you, you know.”

“I know, Bumblebee,” he said quietly. “I love you too.” He looked over at Molly as she joined him on the bed again, reaching for her. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I would rather give up my immortality and die now in your arms than live without you, Sherlock,” she said. “I’ve never been more sure of anything before in my life.”

“All right, then,” he said. He leaned in once she was settled. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said before she kissed him softly. They kissed for a few moments and then pulled apart and shut their eyes, keeping each other close. After a moment she felt her heart beat less, her breathing slow and her body grow colder. And then she was standing beside her mother, staring at her body, Sherlock by her side. But it was not Sherlock as he was in the bed; it was Sherlock as she had known him when they had first fallen in love, vibrant and young. She looked at her mother. “What do we do now?” she asked.

“Now, you stay as my honoured guests at my abode,” her mother said with a smile.

“And Amarantos?” Sherlock asked, looking at their daughter.

“Let’s just say she has a very long, very interesting life ahead of her that, perhaps, the two of you may still get to be a part of yet,” Death said, the universes in her eyes twinkling as she spoke. Molly gave Sherlock a smile as she reached over for his hand and he grasped it before Death began to lead them away from their physical bodies and towards her home. She had made the right decision after all, she thought to herself, and it would be quite interesting to see what happened next.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art: Grain Of Sand In An Hourglass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5440841) by [Sherlolly29_belle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlolly29_belle/pseuds/Sherlolly29_belle)




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